A goth-noir tale of horror, wit, and narcissistic folly.

Uma Thurman... that’s who I was dreaming of the night it all started.  Kill Bill Uma Thurman, not the Pulp Fiction version of course.  She always did look better as a blonde.  But the yellow jump-suited samurai wielding beauty unfortunately dissolved from my view... and suddenly I was lying on my back in the dark, wondering what the hell had just roused me out of a fantastic dream about rescuing her from a group of menacing suit-wearing swordsmen.

Seconds later I recall noticing two things slightly out of the ordinary.  The first was that the small desktop fan I normally kept running in the background for ambient noise was no longer whooshing away reassuringly.  Not too alarming on its own as the house I was renting had a tendency of losing power on a fairly regular basis.  However, combined with the fact that my entire body was completely paralyzed, the whole situation started to take on a slightly more sinister air... (continue to Chapter One)

"Enjoyable reading... yet... validates the opinion of the shrink in me that you've got some issues that you need to resolve."

"Edge-of-your-seat excitement… Brilliant. Abso-fucking-brilliant."